Turn The Page
by skysedge
Summary: After finding a secret collection of books, young Jizabel finds a mysterious boy in the woods outside his home and is told the most important story of them all.
1. Trump

**A/N: **_I probably shouldn't be starting a series but I enjoyed writing this too much to deny it. I hope you enjoy the beginning of a short series and will reward every message with chocolate biscuits and toffee apple cider, the fuel I used to write it in the first place. _

* * *

High on a snowy mountain, a brave and kind hero had surveyed a glittering starscape and smiled at the lonely cry of a distant wolf. The snow had speckled his velvet cape and caressed his pale cheeks, the eternal spirit of nature greeting one of her own. Time had stopped. There had been no pain, no sorrow, no doubt. Just a hero, a mountain and a world bound together by nature's love.

And then the call of a maid startled him and caused the book to fall from his hands. The cover snapped shut and landed face down in the grass, narrowly missing the snowy head of a little lamb that was snoozing peacefully in the sunshine. The mountain ceased to exist but remained in his mind with solemn meaning that he had yet to understand.

"Little master, what are you doing out here? He'll be here soon. You don't want to miss him, do you?"

Jizabel shook his head, back to being himself, and pulled the book closer towards him.

"I'm going to say goodbye to Snark first," he called back, gentle voice quavering slightly with the unfamiliar habit of telling a lie. The maid waved a hand and laughed as much as her position allowed before heading back inside, leaving Jizabel alone with his friend and his book.

Soon he would rush inside and show his father everything he had learned, how good he had been since the last visit. But first he needed to say goodbye to the story he had been part of, the mountain and the hero he had become. And Snark too, of course.

The only thing that the young boy _really _enjoyed about studying to impress his father was being able to read the dusty books in the playroom. He had discovered them by accident. An old and ornate globe stood on top of a cabinet and he had wanted it to study the geography of the world. But the cabinet was tall and Jizabel had always been small. Asking for help never even crossed his mind; he spent most days alone now after all. Instead, he had gripped onto one side of the cabinet and tried to rock it back and forth in the hopes of dislodging the model earth sitting so high above.

It took until he was panting with the exertion and his fingers were red from the strain but eventually the globe toppled from its perch and landed safely in the thick Persian rug on the floor. Turning to inspect it, Jizabel realised why it had looked so high. The globe had been stood on a pile of books, each wrapped in dusty red leather, the spines laced with golden lettering. He had knelt on the rug and read the titles with growing joy. _Alice in Wonderland. The Water Babies. Black Beauty. _And more, more names he remembered from his very early years but had not been able to understand. He had gathered them up along with the globe and hidden them all under his bed.

The books felt precious, somehow. Not simple fact as his father wanted but mysterious stories that valued the things that weren't true. And he wanted to read them all. No, keeping them secret was the best idea. It had been easy for a smart boy like Jizabel to wrap each cover with scraps of cloth 'to protect them from the sun' when he was reading outside. He was seen to be studying hard while he was transported to worlds quite unlike his own, worlds where he could believe in magic and natural spirits and happy endings. Those worlds had loving mothers and fathers, too. And animals that could talk!

And so he had misbehaved. Every third day he would read a story instead of studying. He was almost finished with this one.

"I'll be back tomorrow, I promise," he whispered, one hand caressing the cover of the book as the other rubbed at Snark's ears. He stood up to leave, still holding on to the vision as much as he was able, when a flash of movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

There was something in the trees. Something small and dark. He turned around to face the edge of the forest, the sloping lawn towards the house now at his back. A wolf, maybe? Had one escaped the storybook to say goodbye?

A series of sharp thuds followed the thought and the boy jumped, taking a step back towards the lamb that stood sentry at his feet. Silver had flashed towards a nearby tree. Taking a deep breath, Jizabel walked closer with his hands curled into determined fists. He had to be brave, didn't he? A good, smart, brave boy that would grow into a hero. Nothing in the woods was going to frighten him.

The knives frightened him. There were four of them, climbing the trunk of the tree as if waiting for someone tiny to grab hold and climb up. Eyes widening, Jizabel ran forwards and tried to pull them from the wood, tears threatening as he thought about how much the tree would hurt. The knives were not embedded very deep, as if the metal had wanted to kiss the tree rather than tear it. But it _would _hurt, knives _had _to hurt and the boy was so busy pulling at the lowermost knife with his weak arms that he did not hear the shadow approach.

"You came."

He turned so quickly that he tripped over, struggling back to his feet in a flurry of fallen leaves and dirt. There was a child watching him. A boy. He wasn't much taller than Jizabel but had darker hair, as black as the coal in the playroom fire. His clothes were just as dark, as was the dirt under his fingernails and the long lashes framing his eyes. Frightened as he was, Jizabel found himself fascinated by the boy's eyes. They were dark but warm somehow, as if behind all that coal there was a fire burning inside.

"You came," the boy repeated. "I knew you would come back here. I was waiting for you."

"Are you from the books?" Jizabel asked, backing up until he was standing against the knives. The boy was frightening, yes, but his voice was gentle as if _he _was the one in disbelief. "I said I'll come back tomorrow. I need to go and-"

"No. I'm not from the stories." The dark haired boy took a step forward. "But I'm from a long way away. I'm from back _there. _Do you know anything about Babylon?"

Jizabel considered before shaking his head. "I've heard it at church but I don't know what it means."

The boy's lips suddenly curved in a wide and joyful smile, one which brightened his entire expression and swept some of the coal from his eyes. They were a warm brown, Jizabel could see now. They felt nostalgic, as if he had seen them long ago. They had meant something, he thought. Something he wasn't supposed to forget.

"That's good," the other said. "Brilliant. Do you want to hear a story?"

Jizabel started nodding before he had thought his answer through and then shook his head, hands held up in front of him. "I can't stay here. My father wants to see me."

This was spoken with all the pride of a good little boy who had done as he was told, for the most part, and who was awaiting praise. Jizabel did not understand why the radiant smile vanished from the other's face, nor why he then spoke in the low tones of someone much older than themselves.

"You want to see him. I understand."

Jizabel didn't like the sound of his voice at all. Taking another deep breath and glancing back at Snark who was waiting on the lawn, he tried a smile himself.

"What sort of story is it?"

"A tragedy," the other said instantly. "But a beautiful one, really."

"Who is it about?"

"A good little boy who grows up to be a hero."

Jizabel blinked before his own smile became radiant. Maybe the boy _was _from the books. Maybe he just didn't realise it. It would be safest to not ask anything else about it, in case the stranger remembered the truth and the magic was broken. This made perfect sense to the mind of a child and so he stopped being afraid, seeing only the hero on the mountain.

"Can I hear it tomorrow?"

The dark haired boy made a small noise of surprise before his smile returned brighter than before.

"Okay. I'll be here, waiting."

Jizabel nodded eagerly and began to walk away before turning back and cupping his hands around his mouth.

"What can I call you?"

The boy considered, visibly hesitating as if on the verge of imparting a secret. At length he gave a soft laugh and said "Trump. You can call me Trump."

"My name's Jizabel. See you tomorrow!"

With a grin and a wave, Jizabel turned and began hurrying back to the house, grabbing his book on the way. He'd never made a friend before, out here in the countryside so far from other children. And a friend from a book who would tell him stories was something to be excited about.

"Take care."

The call followed him as he rushed across the grass and he decided that Trump, like the books, was another precious thing to be kept secret. Entering the house, he forced himself to think of nothing but the globe and geography. His father would be so proud of him for all his studies. Once he had gone back to the city, the stories could be allowed to exist again.

As the thoughts faded from his mind, the knives in the forest slowly sunk into the trunk of the tree and vanished from view. The shadow called Trump was no longer to be seen.


	2. Babylon

**A/N – **_**So this was going to be three parts but I sort of finished it here. Count it as a oneshot, maybe. Thanks to everyone who read last time, don't be shy to drop me a message ^^ I've really enjoyed writing this, as abstract as it is. See you next time!**_

* * *

He was so eager to get outside the following day that one of the maids stopped to question him as he flew down a flight of stairs, one hand gripping the banister to stop his weak frame from crashing to the floor.

"Snark wants to play," he said breathlessly, swinging around a corner and dashing towards the large front doors. She watched him leave with a confused smile, wondering why the little lord was so energetic after what must have been a miserable evening.

His father had not been as proud as he had been hoping. Despite all of his studies on the globe and in academic books, he had not known enough to please. The words of praise had been kind, as they always were, and he had enjoyed the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. But when he was in bed, thinking back, he knew that it was all just routine. He was not the boy his father was looking for, still. Some nights he wondered if he could ever become that boy. He was too sensitive. He had been berated for being friends with Snark again. He had been right in keeping the stories secret.

Doing better in his studies was not an option, it was a necessity. But still…he had promised to hear a story. If he listened today and then behaved for a whole week, things would even out. As a vow to himself, he had hidden the story books deep in a dusty cupboard. Cobwebs had clung to his pale hair and dirt had streaked his hands; he was in no rush to go back in there. He would listen to Trump's story and then focus on his studies.

It couldn't be impossible to make his father happy _and _enjoy himself. Could it?

Snark was waiting for him near the entrance, the lamb's small dark eyes glittering in the morning sun. Jizabel dropped to his knees, scuffing them in the grass, and wrapped his arms around the animal's neck.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully, eyes closed as he inhaled the familiar earthy scent. "We're going to play with another friend today. Isn't that wonderful?"

Snark nuzzled into his neck, as always, and Jizabel smiled with pride. The little lamb was growing faster than he had expected. He looked forward to the day he would grow into a big, strong ram that could stand by his side. They'd make everyone proud, together. Petting Snark's head one last time, the boy got to his feet and pointed down the hill.

"This way!" he said. "Come with me this time, okay?"

Together they made their way across the lawn, kicking clinging dew drops free from the bright blades of grass. Jizabel tried to imagine them doing this in the future, when he had his own estate, his own lawn, his own forest. The dew would look smaller in the future. Everything would. In a way, it was sad. He'd have to find greater forests, bigger lawns, if he wanted to lose himself as much as he did now. But that was the wonderful thing about nature; it could always be greater and would never turn him away.

He reached the edge of the forest and the temperature plunged. The sun had not kissed the ground long enough for it to warm the shadows. His skin rose in tiny bumps, like the flesh of a chicken he had once seen lying in the pantry with no head. He hated his skin like this, felt sick at the reminder, and so slid his hands up and down his arms to warm them. The movements were frantic and he stood rooted to the spot, eyes on the ground as he waited to feel warm again.

"Good morning."

Trump's voice was warm in the cool of the shadows and Jizabel turned towards it, a small and lost flower turning towards a tiny sun.

"Morning," he said quietly, taking a small step back and feeling Snark's reassuring weight leaning against his legs.

"Are you cold?"

"A little," he replied honestly, letting his hands fall limp at his sides. He felt a little embarrassed now that someone could see. "My arms feel strange."

"Don't worry," Trump said, stepping forwards much faster than Jizabel would have expected and placing one tiny hand on each of Jizabel's arms. He began warming them, eyes lowered. Jizabel had never been so easily touched before, even though all the boys in his adventure stories were used to it. He'd never had a real playmate, a human friend. He stared at Trump's hands with unabashed curiosity. Tiny white marks marred the skin. He'd seen similar ones on his mother's hands, long ago, when she still spent time with him.

"What's wrong with your hands?" he asked. Trump flinched, grip tightening on Jizabel's arms for just a moment.

"I have a dangerous hobby," he said at length. "It's nothing to worry about."

"What is it? Mine is reading, I think. I like reading so I think that means it's a hobby."

"Right," Trump agreed. "You'll always like reading, I promise, even though people might not know. Someone will realise."

Jizabel stared at him, confused.

"You say strange things," he said. "My arms are warm now. Thank you. Are you going to tell me the story?"

Trump let him go almost hesitantly before nodding. He gestured to the ground at their feet. The grass here was a little drier but sparkled with frost. Trump must have come from somewhere very far away, as he had said, to be able to withstand the cold without even complaining. His dark, fitted clothes didn't seem very warm. Before he could voice his concerns, Jizabel was directed towards the grass.

"Sit down and I can tell you. Do you…need to see your father today?"

Jizabel dropped down into the grass, gathering Snark onto his lap, and shook his head.

"He's left again. I don't need to hurry back. Mother doesn't notice when I play outside."

"She does," Trump said quickly, sitting down as well and leaning against a tree. "She doesn't say it but she does. You've never been…you're not very observant, are you? Not with the things that matter." The look on young Jizabel's face was enough to cause Trump to throw up his hands in apology. "Sorry. Never mind."

"You're really strange, Trump. I don't mind though. Please tell me the story. Of the boy who grows up to be a hero?"

"You have to promise me something first."

The condition caught Jizabel off guard and he blinked his large eyes across the gloom. Trump's face was serious, far too serious for a little boy. He reminded Jizabel of some people that had visited the house once. Veterans, his mother had called them. People who had been somewhere far away to fight them, or something. They had all looked at him with serious pained eyes. At least, that's what he thought they were. He'd never been taught anything about pain and suffering. He knew he was lucky. Trump did not look so lucky. He wondered why.

"What do I have to promise?"

"That you'll never forget this story. Ever. Okay?"

Jizabel nodded easily. Why would he want to forget?

"Not even if people tell you things that make it seem…not so…real," Trump added. "No matter what. Don't forget. All right? You can forget me. You _will _forget me. But not the story."

"I won't forget you either!" he cried, all innocence and loyalty. "I'll remember everything. I promise."

Trump's smile was slow and sad as he answered. "We'll see. Okay then. The story. It begins in a fortress built of lies."

Trump's voice was even and melodic as he told the story, although sometimes he would stop and rub at his eyes as if they were filled with dust. Jizabel listened carefully.

The fortress had thick walls and low ceilings, Trump told him. Light was allowed in but the cruel words of those inside had stained the windows so that all the goodness of the sun was leeched away before it reached them. The people inside were very sick. Sometimes they would feel better and play with one another, laugh for a little while, but then the man that built the fortress would visit and everything would return to normal. He was important, Trump said. Jizabel had to remember him. He was a bad man.

The young hero had lived inside the fortress all his life. But even though the very air he breathed was thick with deception and sin, he had a pure heart. The hero loved animals, sunlight, being outside and on the grass. Maybe he was pure because he dared to venture in the grounds, Trump said. Maybe he'd had enough of the fortress but was too young and naïve to realise. Either way, he loved the world outside of his rooms and he loved sharing it with the creatures he could find.

Jizabel liked the hero a lot. He seemed nice, despite everything. Heroes were meant to be like that.

As the young hero grew, so did the fortress. Here came the sad bit, Trump said, the bit where the fortress grew so big that it swallowed the world outside and stopped all light from even existing. All the animals ended up on dinner tables or hung on walls and everything became covered in dust. The innocent hero wandered the endless corridors in sorrow, looking for the family he had once laughed with. Only one person could ever be found inside that fortress. No matter where the hero turned or which doors he opened, the man that built the fortress would always be waiting for him.

He sounded scary, Jizabel said. Trump had stopped talking for a while after that.

When the story resumed, the hero was desperately trying every door that he could find in search of someone else. Each time the man was waiting for him. He praised the hero for trying so hard, for growing up. His hands were heavy but burning hot, so hot that they burned right through the hero's chest and into his heart and lungs. The hero forgot how clean the air could be and how warm the sunlight was. Each breath he took was coloured with lies and his heart grew a covering of black, like thick rust.

Jizabel thought this was very sad, to forget how lovely nature was. Trump agreed.

"But don't worry," he said. "There's still hope."

It didn't seem very hopeful. The hero kept looking for a way out, even though with each door he opened he forgot what he was searching for, and why. Things started to change, Trump said. The fortress was still growing, covering the entire country. Inside it, other things started to appear. Sometimes there were frightening people who could perform magic tricks, people in robes with bright cards clutched in their hands. The hero looked down to see a card in his own hand, one that showed a skeleton.

"I don't like skeletons," Jizabel had interrupted. "I have to study them but…living people are better."

"You're a good boy," Trump replied. "But don't interrupt. It's important."

The hero who had forgotten how to be a hero was still opening doors. For days, weeks, years, he kept searching. Some of the rooms had animals. Jizabel smiled as Trump explained how the hero one day found a dog inside one of the basements and made friends with it, remembering his friends in the world outside distantly. This was the happy end, surely. But no. The dog died. Jizabel almost cried as Trump described how it was torn apart by unseen hands. The hero stitched it together, hands covered in blood, only to find it torn apart again. He gave up after a while and resumed wandering but the blood never came off of his hands. Each doorknob he turned was stained crimson, marking the way. There was never a shortage of new doors.

But the man was always there.

"Who is he?" Jizabel asked.

"The hero doesn't really know," Trump replied. "He thinks he does but he's wrong. It doesn't matter. He's a very bad man. Remember that."

The story started to change. One day, the very bad man opened a tiny window and in rushed a small rat. It was jet black from head to tail, with tiny grasping paws. The man went to crush the rat but the hero took it quickly and placed it on his shoulder. It followed him as he continued his search from room to room. Sometimes it brought him food or useful items, lockpicks, things it could find in small spaces.

"Does it have a name?" Jizabel asked. Trump shook his head.

"Think of it as Shadow. It's not far off."

"I like it. It's a good rat, isn't it? Even though it doesn't look it?"

Trump smiled and continued.

Sometimes the rat would bite the hero out of frustration with the search. Sometimes the hero would tread on the rat while trying to do something else. They stuck together though, always. They met many people during their search, mostly bad, and the ones that were good would usually die. They both became covered in blood, turned to the same colour through the endless days of searching and wishing for an escape they couldn't grasp.

And one day the rat died. One of the scary men hiding in the rooms picked up a knife and skewered it. The hero remembered himself, for a while. He had once tried to save a dog, he realised. It hadn't worked and it had been painful but it had been the right thing to do. The rat was from outside, where he had once played and laughed. It couldn't be allowed to die. The hero locked himself in a room and worked tirelessly, in secret, and soon the rat lived again. It looked different, now. The shock had turned it's fur bright white, like an angel only visiting from heaven, living on borrowed time. This frightened the hero. After all of its help, the rat could not be allowed to die. He wouldn't let it.

As he reached up and cracked open a window, the rat said goodbye and scurried away. A flick of its tail promised that it would return through a window large enough for the hero to climb through. As he watched it leave, a ray of sunlight fell on his face and the hero recognised himself for what he was. Struggling. Blood-stained. Alone. But still pure.

And he would not be alone for long. He resumed the search with a smile. Even if the bad man was waiting, there was still hope.

"And that's the end," Trump said after an awkward pause. "I might not have told it right, but…it seems good enough."

Jizabel was silent in thought. In his lap, Snark dozed peacefully. He could almost see the rat, the hero, the blood, the bad man. He thought he could understand. You _would _always search for this beauty, wouldn't you? Even if people made it so that you forgot what it looked like?

"That was a strange story," he said. "And not very happy. There wasn't an adventure or anything but I liked it. Why is it important?"

Trump stood up and crossed the distance between them. One hand under Jizabel's chin, he spoke slowly and with an intensity that he had lacked before.

"We are always trying to find the way out of the dark fortress of lies. You can't see it, though. The doors can't be touched. It's all inside your mind and it's always growing. But the world outside still exists. The sun is still warm and the animals are still waiting for you to return."

Jizabel tilted his head a little and Trump stepped back, looking embarrassed.

"That's the important part. Don't forget that. Even when all hope seems lost, hope can find a way in. People that love you…friends…friends can always find a way in through the smallest of gaps. You just have to let them."

"And we're friends?" Jizabel asked, getting to his feet as well with the lamb still in his arms. "Like Snark and me?"

The last smile Trump gave him was accompanied by tears.

"Yes. We're friends. Goodbye, Jizabel. Don't forget."

The dark boy retreated into the shadows. No matter how hard Jizabel looked after that, he could never find him again. Soon, over time, he grew to believe it had all been a dream. But the story remained. Even as the books hidden in the cupboard were forgotten and left to fall into decay, the story remained.

* * *

Cracking open a window, Death allowed a dove that had been sickly to fly back into the open air. He had been thinking strange things while working. That wasn't unusual for when he was with the animals. Thinking about terrible things, about annihilation and disease, mutilation and deception…those things were all normal. The peace he felt when tending the birds was strange in its tenderness. He did not mind. It reminded him of childhood.

"The fortress was called Babylon," he said, raising a hand to catch a falling snowy feather. He did not know why he spoke the words but they felt right, felt warm sitting in his weary and pained heart.

The fortress was called Babylon but the window was open. That had been important once. He stood and stared at the open window until darkness began to gather in the sky.


End file.
